One Saturday in July
by jsq
Summary: "If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop the story"- Orson Welles. Ziva, Tony, a study in Saturdays and an experiment in endings.
1. 2005

_Warnings: None_

_Spoilers: Through the end of Season 9_

_Disclaimers: The usual_

_Notes: One Saturday, each year_

_"If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop the story." ~Orson Welles_

**Saturday, July 2, 2005. Tel Aviv.**

It was time to formulate a plan. She picked up the girl, the one who could not be more than two-years-old, the one who _was_ _not_ _supposed_ _to_ _be_ _here_, and held her to her chest. She had her orders- to leave no survivors. They were orders she never questioned upon entering a den of terrorists...until she encountered this little surprise tucked away in a back room. She did not doubt what was expected of her, but she knew she would not deliver.

The bloody knife went back into its holster.

She held the crying baby close, closed her eyes and mentally reviewed the mission's dossier. She pulled up every piece of paperwork in her mind until she found the one with a list of addresses. This child had grandparents, and now Ziva remembered where they lived.

"_Ana __asefa,_" she apologized to the little girl in Arabic. There was only one way out of this building, and it was back the way she came. She did her best to hide the baby's eyes while carefully maneuvering her way around the bodies of the men she had killed only moments earlier. She did her best, and she found herself hoping that counted for something.

By the time they made it out into the black, sticky night, the girl had progressed from crying to wailing. Ziva once again reached back into her memory, this time plucking an old lullaby from its recesses. She hummed it to the child who, quite fairly, could not be comforted. No matter, they were only two blocks from the get-away car.

Once they reached the car, Ziva found herself bemoaning the lack of a safety seat. She laughed at the absurdity of her concern. As if riding one mile without a carseat was the most significant danger this child had faced tonight. She laughed, and then she started to shake.

She had to formulate a plan. Because her time on this Earth was no doubt coming to an end.

It wasn't just this child. It was also her brother. Her dead, traitorous brother. That she had killed. Only, her father did not know that. Or maybe he did. He had ordered her to do it, and she had followed those orders. Only, she hadn't meant to. She had meant to save him, escape with him. Because she had believed in him. But she was wrong, and her father was right. Or maybe he was wrong too; maybe he had turned her brother into a traitor.

What would he do to her?

Nothing, because she was his child. Like Ari was his child. Like this girl in her lap was someone's child. She had tried to save them, Ari and this girl. Her father did not forget. He certainly did not forgive.

What would he do to her?

For following his orders, but not on purpose...if he even knew the truth, which of course he did, because he had his ways, and he always knew. He always knew. She glanced at the little girl. Tonight she was sparing a life he would have wanted her to end. She was defying him, and he did not tolerate defiance. He granted no special dispensation to little girls.

He would not do it directly. No one would be given orders. He would be more subtle. He would send her into a situation from which she could not escape. He would have her die, rather than have her killed.

She flashed back to just over a month ago in D.C. Those men had lost a member of their team. They had loved her, and they mourned her. They had sought revenge.

Ziva worked with a team too. She knew without a doubt that they would not mourn her. She knew that there would be no one wanting revenge.

She knew that no one had her back. She knew that she had only herself.

She was driving so much more slowly, so much more carefully than she usually did, out of consideration for the little girl who continued to wail. _Ana __asefa._They were the only words she had to offer.

She reached her destination and the child was deposited at the gate. She would not go unnoticed, this screaming child. Her grandparents would hear, and they would come for her soon. _Ana __asefa._

Ziva drove away, abandoning all caution. She made the call, reported the successful completion of her task. She hung up when asked why she had taken so long.

What would he do to her?

She had prided herself on her stoicism. She could quietly bear any loss. She did not fear death.

But in the oppressive heat of this July night, when the sky was dark and the animals and people too listless to produce any sound, she felt like the only person in the entire world. And since she was alone, she could confess that she was tired of losing. She could admit that she was not ready to die.

So she had to formulate a plan.

The men in D.C. had cared about their team member. _Jen._ She had a friend, one with influence. She looked at the clock- 11:15 PM. It was only 5:15 in D.C. She doubted the Americans worked on the weekend, but Jen would take her call. Quickly, she put together two arguments- one for her friend, the other for her father. He would not be able to refuse her, not if he wanted to be subtle.

Time. On this Saturday, she knew how to purchase it.

**TBC**


	2. 2006

**Saturday, July, 22nd 2006. D.C.**

As best he could figure, Tony DiNozzo currently had three equally significant problems. First of all, he was up at 6:45 AM on a Saturday morning. Second of all, he was running at 6:45 AM on a Saturday morning. And finally, he was up and running at 6:45 AM on a humid, 90-degree Saturday morning.

As far as he was concerned, it was settled. Ziva David was the devil.

He swiped his forearm across his eyes, clearing away the sweat that was pouring down his face in sheets. He pushed himself harder, refusing to fall behind. The Israeli beside him was setting a cruel pace. He wanted to trip her.

It would've been conduct unbecoming of a Team Leader. But still.

She asked him some question he couldn't really understand over the blood pounding in his ears, so he just grunted and hoped it would suffice as an answer. How was she doing that- carrying on a conversation like they were on some sort of leisurely stroll? They were running fast and _freaking __far. _Not to mention the humidity. Oh, the humidity.

He hoped he wasn't panting loudly enough for her to hear. Who knew how the little terrorist would use it against him?

Wait. Was it possible she was trying to kill him? Had this been her plan all along? She had been awfully quick to pounce yesterday when he and McGee had returned to the Navy Yard sans suspect. Her mocking tone still echoed in his memory: "A Team Leader so out of shape he allows a suspect to outrun him? You would be laughed out of Mossad." She had narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips and let her hair fall slightly in front of her face while she said it. She knew how to get to him, just how to goad him into trying to prove himself. Now she had him where she wanted him- on this run, in this heat, tricking him into killing himself.

It would be just like her.

Suddenly his stomach rolled, and...oh shit...he was going to puke. Yep, if he went a step further, he was definitely going to puke. Dammit. He quickly calculated which would do more damage to his pride, which would give her more ammunition- to call a halt to this death march she referred to as a "jog," or spill the contents of his stomach on the D.C. sidewalk.

"Uncle."

Momentum made it difficult for her to stop, but when she did, she looked back at him in confusion.

"I cannot begin to guess how I am expected to respond to that."

"Uncle. It means I give."

Still, her face was all bewilderment. "Give what?"

Could _nothing _about her be easy? "Give in. I'm through. I can't go any further. You win."

"I did not realize we were in competition...and what does any of that have to do with your uncle?"

Whatever. He saw the satisfied little smirk before she was able to cover it up with a carefully constructed innocence. He was learning that, with Ziva, what she said was irrelevant- smart men would do better to watch her eyes for meaning.

And Tony DiNozzo was a very smart man.

"I'm getting on the Metro, and I'm going home and back to bed like a normal person. You just keep on running like the little Israeli half-android that I know you must be. See you on Monday."

"See you on Monday."

Her words were neutral, but her eyes were disappointed. Now, that was a fascinating turn of events.

Huh.

So, he decided to try something new. If it didn't work, he could always blame dehydration. "There's a Hitchcock marathon on TCM tonight. You could come over around 8:00. You know, give my thing a try, since I've been such a good sport about yours."

"Is Saturday not date night in the United States? I would have thought you would have more exciting plans than a movie at home with a coworker."

Damn. A miscalculation. Exercise made him sloppy. "You're right, Zi_vah_. I could do better. Never mind."

"It is rude to rescind an invitation once it has been made. You will just have to wait until next weekend to do better. I will bring beer."

And the upper-hand was his again. Ha. "Fine. See you tonight."

She gave him a little wave, and she was off.

"Unless you suffer a heat stroke," he muttered as he wearily made his way to the Metro station.

oOo

Thirteen hours later, Tony DiNozzo concluded that he had exactly one problem. He wanted to fuck his coworker.

Strike that. Not his coworker. His subordinate.

Shit.

Said subordinate was currently curled up on the end of his couch, twirling one of her curls around her finger, engrossed in _The __Lady __Vanishes._ He was pretending to be equally engrossed, but he'd seen this movie a million times, so mostly he was trying to squash the image of Ziva David sprawled naked across his sofa, all the while praying that his face wasn't as flushed as it felt. He shifted in his seat as subtly as possible.

He'd never been with anyone whose native language wasn't English. She claimed to be a screamer...he wondered if that meant she screamed in Hebrew. He knew without a doubt that he'd never be satisfied until he found out.

Shit.

Mercifully, the woman in question appeared _for __once_ unaware of his discomfort. She was starting to fidget, growing more and more agitated with the film. There wasn't enough blood left in Tony's brain for him to figure out why. She kept making these little noises in the back of her throat, presumably to express her disbelief at what was happening on screen, but they coincided just a little too well with the fantasies he was trying not to have.

Shit.

Finally, she turned to him, gesturing at the screen. "They are greenlighting her!"

Huh? "I think you mean gaslighting."

"Yes. It is very upsetting." She was actually sputtering.

This was exactly the distraction he needed. "_It__'__s __very __upsetting,_" he mimicked her. "Does the little international super-spy honestly get the heebie-jeebies from some fictional gaslighting?" He grasped at the hope of a sparring match like it was a life preserver.

True to form, she held it just out of his reach.

It started out well. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth began to shape a venom-fueled response. But she paused, and that was the problem with Ziva David. She always took just a split second to think before speaking. She used that second to study him in a way she hadn't all night. And she saw right through him.

Shit.

Her eyes stayed narrowed, but her mouth re-shaped itself into a predator's smile. She came close. Too close. Her hair tickled his neck as she looked him up and down in that way that was dangerous enough in the bullpen, but was positively lethal in the privacy of his home. "That is the second time today you have called me 'little.' Do you think me a child, Tony?"

Ugh. Her voice was doing that low, husky thing, and... The thing was that he always walked too close to any given line. Gibbs had known that, and he had rules that helped. Kate had known that, and she'd always done her best to hold him back. He suspected Ziva knew it too, but she wasn't Gibbs, and she wasn't Kate. If he wanted to cross a line, Ziva David would be more than happy to help him out.

"What was the question again?"

That made her laugh, bought him some time. She was still too close, though, and she definitely wasn't a child. God, she was pretty...

Shit.

She didn't back away. She didn't let him off the hook. Her eyes were dancing now, delighting in the game of chicken that was their relationship. She would never be the one to call "Uncle." She'd count on him to do all the swerving. It wasn't fair, and it couldn't end well, but the beginning and middle would sure as hell be fun.

He calculated and decided that two out of three wasn't bad. Besides, it wasn't as though she was really one of them. She'd go back to Mossad eventually, and damned if he wanted to let that happen before he knew for sure if she screamed in Hebrew.

It might not be smart, but this Saturday it felt worth it.

**TBC**


	3. 2007

**Author****'****s** **Note:** Special thanks to JMHaughey for a read-through and to Jelenamichel's NCIS Guidebook for sparing me a re-watch of all the Jeanne Benoit episodes.

**Saturday, July 14, 2007. Arlington, VA.**

The fork was the most obvious one- with enough force and precision, it could puncture the jugular. The napkin and the tablecloth could aid in strangulation, help prevent the fatigue that would accompany the use of one's hands alone. The knife was a...a...something herring; it pretended to be the right choice, but with such a dull blade, it was largely useless. The glass could be smashed and turned into a much more effective implement for stabbing...although, for a simple stabbing, she'd most likely just turn to the fork. No, the glass would be better for a long cut, perhaps for slitting a throat. The same could be said for the plate. She looked with disgust across the table at her partner's gigantic bowl of pasta. It was easily enough to feed four people, but Americans liked their portions huge and the upside of that, she supposed, was a pasta bowl heavy enough to be effective when slammed into a person's temple. That left only the spoon. Now, some might believe it is never a spoon, but Ziva was more creative than that. If shoved down the throat, it would be a very effective choking device. The trick would be committing to it. You could not be half-hearted in your attempt-

"Stop staring at the utensils that way."

His voice startled her, pulled her out of her routine. "What way?"

"The way that makes it look like you're imagining them as instruments of death. It's creepy, and it's going to get us noticed."

She glanced away from Tony, hoping to prevent him from seeing anything in her eyes that might give away just how accurate his semi-joking statement was. So she had an almost compulsive need to assess her ability to protect herself in any given situation? So it comforted her to assure herself that she could turn mundane objects into weapons? So what?

He reached over and gently turned her face back to his. "We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves," he ground out through a fake smile.

She did her best to look back at him lovingly, to play her assigned role as one half of a couple enjoying a romantic dinner. It was her job, after all.

But it cost her. It really did.

Every time he touched her as part of the operation, humiliation rolled over her in waves. Because she had wanted this. Wanted it in real life, not as a means to an end. She had thought...she had really believed that she was close to having it. Last summer, it had really seemed like _this_ was going somewhere. She...she had sort of started loving him. And it made her want to claw her own skin off to admit it, but she had sort of thought that maybe he might love her too.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Anders should have been here long ago. I am growing weary of acting as though I am enjoying myself."

He smirked at her, all the while stroking her hand across the table, playing his part. "Don't try to pretend that there is anywhere on earth you'd rather be than here, with me."

"Trust me. It is no pretense." Be the one to strike first. Always, always, always.

"You wound me." The words were spoken dryly, mocking her.

She opened her mouth to try again, formed something cruel on the tip of her tongue, but she did not follow through. Instead, she slumped back against the booth. She could not really wound him, because she did not matter enough to provoke a reaction.

Yes, tonight was costing her. Dearly.

"Are you okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, and it felt a bit like salt in her wound.

"I am fine. Only tired. The week was long and now it is the weekend, but for us there is no break."

"And this is new how? Come on, Ziva, you're sounding like a Gibbs newbie."

That was an opening, and she could have chosen to engage, but she really was tired of pretense. Their friendship had imploded somewhere in the midst of Gibbs' return and Jeanne Benoit and faked doctors appointments and hearts that had hoped without permission. She did not know how to put it back together. She was not sure she wished to.

Tony looked ready to push, but something tingled along the back of her neck, and she used the mirror at the end of the wall to survey the restaurant. She smiled when she caught a glimpse of the blond that signaled the end of her unpleasant night of surveillance. Tony stood when she did, undoubtedly understanding the new glint in her eye. He wrapped his arm around her, they were just a couple eager to move on to the next phase of their night, and it did not hurt this time, because she was focused on her prey.

But they were not the only ones with good instincts. Anders paused for a second as they approached, and she knew instantly that he was going to run. She had her heels off before he made it out the door. She chased him into the steamy night, barefoot and in a dress.

She would catch him too. This operation would not last one moment more.

Tony caught up to her just as she launched herself at her target, bringing him face first into the pavement. The man was lucky she did not have access to a spoon. The cuffs were on and Tony was calling for transport.

And this was over.

"You wanna go back to the restaurant and get your shoes?" The question was asked with a little slack-jawed awe, and that made her smile. At least she could still impress him.

But she waved off his offer. "I just want to wrap this up and begin my weekend."

"I'd say you earned it. You went after that guy like a spider-monkey."

And that made her laugh. Which made her think that maybe not all was lost. She was used to not getting exactly what she wanted, she expected it even. So maybe he would not love her. Perhaps she could still convince him to like her again.

On this Saturday, she decided that would have to be enough.


	4. 2008

**Author****'****s** **Note:**Thanks to my pal JMHaughey for the read-through!

**Saturday, July 19, 2008. USS Seahawk and Tel Aviv.**

From: tdinozzo

To: zdavid

Subject: Life Afloat

Hi There Sweetcheeks,

How is Israel? Is it good to be home? I bet you don't miss McGee at all, huh? I'm assuming you haven't talked to Probie, since, you know, you haven't talked to me. If you were going to email anyone, it would be your partner, right? Not the Elf Lord. That probably means you haven't been in touch with Abby either. You know, she's probably going to be really mad about that. You should Skype her sometime.

So, bet you're wondering how I'm handling life afloat. It's pretty sweet, being surrounded by about 5000 people every minute of every day. Never alone. You know how I hate being alone. Not a lot of women on the ship. Of course, the ones who are aren't constantly imagining ways to kill me with everyday objects, so that's a nice change. I know what you're going to say- that I should be assured that they _are_ in fact imagining ways to kill me. Well, guess what Zi_vah_? You're wrong, and you can't argue with me about it, because you're not even here. Besides, _normal_ women love me.

Liberties are a nice change of pace. We've mostly been in South America and the Caribbean, so if I squint, it's a little like this whole thing is a cruise. Yep, gotten to try some new foods. Learned some pick-up lines in Spanish (I'm sure you're proud- you were always encouraging me to work harder at foreign languages). Hey, the other day I found a little indie movie house on one of the islands. Pretty cool. Of course, I couldn't understand a damn thing that was going on, because it was in unsubtitled French. Made me think of you because, you know, you speak French. If you'd been there, I'd have made you interpret the whole thing for me, which would have made you insane, which probably would have made you start listing the ways you could murder me with popcorn butter. Not that I imagined it, or anything.

Okay, well, gotta go. I'm a pretty important guy here. I guess you're probably important there too- probably why you've been to0 busy to send an email or anything. But, you know, if you have any good chick fight stories, I'd love to hear them (and if you have pictures, send those too). Try to watch a few American movies when you have downtime- I'd hate to see you lose even the small progress you made with slang. Is everyone is Israel well-versed in turning office supplies into weapons? If that's the case...well, I hope you stay one step ahead.

-Tony

oOo

From: zdavid

To: tdinozzo

Subject: Hello

Tony,

I am writing because I have not heard from you, and I wanted to make sure that you have not gotten yourself thrown overboard. Because that would be just like you. I cannot imagine being stuck with you on a ship for this amount of time. Please pass on my sympathies to your shipmates. Also, let them know that I am available for tutorials if they need assistance in getting you to shut up.

I hope you have managed to break your habit of constantly referring to quotes from movies. This is something that is very annoying to others, as I was reminded the other day when one of my fellow officers threatened to break my jaw if I quoted _A_ _Few_ _Good_ _Men_ one more time_._ First, I made him live to regret threatening me. Then, I realized that I had allowed you to scrub off on me. I found this very unsettling.

It is nice to be home, with people who are not constantly mocking my use of the language. It is very relaxing. Sometimes a little boring. There are no practical jokes in Mossad. It is all very professional, which is good. Although, I did think of you on the day I mentioned earlier . As I said, I made the man sorry he had threatened me, but then I thought about how if it had been McGee, I would have been able to convince you to superglue his phone to his ear, which would have been a very satisfying diversion.

As if McGee would ever threaten me. Okay, now I am laughing just thinking about it.

You are going above board to get fresh air, I presume? Because the air on ships can get very stale, and I cannot imagine that would be good for someone with lungs such as yours. I know that Ducky is not there to remind you to take care of yourself. You should be sure to consult with a medic if you begin to feel even a little bit ill. It would be very inconvenient for everyone on board if you were to die. All of the arrangements, all of the cost- you should try to stay alive, at least until you are returned to land.

That is all I have to say.

-Ziva

oOo

Of course, neither Tony DiNozzo nor Ziva David was going to actually send the email they composed. It was partly due to pride- neither of them was willing to be the one to contact the other first. They knew each other well, and they knew that whoever caved first would never be allowed to live down such an obvious sign of normal human affection.

So, self-preservation. That was part of it. But it was not the part that mattered most.

Neither of them would send the emails they composed weekly to the other, because neither of them had yet found themselves able to say the things that were really true.

"NCIS had become home. I want to go home."

"I am sorry-for the last year, for Jenny's death, for all of it. I am sorry."

"I miss you."

They were still working out how to tell the truth without having it used against them. It was a lesson that had to be learned slowly, so instead they chose to remain silent. Because on this Saturday, half-truths were simply not enough.


	5. 2009

**Author****'****s****Note:**Thanks again to JMHaughey for another read-through. Also, I might have fudged a little on the timeline. I hope you'll forgive me.

**Saturday, July 4, 2009. Washington, D.C.**

It was a bar, and it was late, so most of the guys were watching other people. They were looking for someone to mock, or someone to fight, or someone to fuck. They were looking to figure out who they needed to avoid, or who they might convince to take them home tonight. Tony knew this, because he used to be just like them. But he hadn't been for a while, and tonight, he had no interest in watching people. Tonight, he was watching the clock. It struck midnight, and he raised his glass to his partner.

"To independence," He poured the brown liquor down his throat and motioned to the bartender to keep 'em coming. He avoided looking at the empty stool beside him.

He considered his next toast. Maybe he should've saved independence for last. Maybe he wouldn't be able to top that one. It had seemed poetic, reserving that particular toast for midnight on Independence Day, but now that he thought about it, it was really just a cliche, and he didn't know where to go from there.

Because that one, it said it all, didn't it? "To independence." His independence. Because he was free of her. He was finally, truly free of her. She was gone, gone, gone- not just to the other side of the world. "No survivors," that's what Gibbs had said. Those words, they'd ended her. Ended her. She would not be coming back. They would not be sorting things out, or cutting each other loose. Because she was ended, and he was free.

"To freedom." He raised his glass again. Freedom was different than independence. Or was that just semantics? He didn't actually care, so he just took another drink.

He was so _fucking_ angry at her. She was just like all the others. She was _worse_than all the others. She had died before he'd gotten the chance to fix it. She had left...or maybe they had left her...but still, she was gone, and he was still here, and he _could_have fixed it. He was going to. He was waiting for the right time. He was waiting for her to see that he'd had her six all along. He was waiting, waiting, waiting...but she put a stop to that. She put a stop to that, and he hated her. He was glad she drowned. She deserved it.

"To the ocean." He emptied another glass and slammed it down on the bar. She had drowned. Ziva, who could kill him with an ice cube- Ziva, who was supposed to be invincible, a freakin' superhero- had drowned. Water had filled her lungs- she wouldn't have been able to breathe. He knew how that felt, to gasp and get no air. It was horrible...but...But Ziva wouldn't have panicked, not at first. She would have stayed calm. She would have tried everything.

But it hadn't been enough. Just like always, her everything wasn't enough. She must have been afraid at the end. She must have realized that her calm and her training had failed her, and she must have panicked. Drowning doesn't happen quickly. There's time. She must have been so, so scared, and it just wasn't right. Ziva didn't deserve to be scared at the end. She didn't...it shouldn't have been the end.

"To what should have been." His toasts were getting more eloquent, and this one in particular covered all manner of sins.

Now that it was too late, he could think of so many things that should have been. As many times as he'd seen this particular film, you'd think he would have learned this lesson before. He should never have been the one to swerve all those summer nights at his house, because damned if he still didn't know whether or not she screamed in Hebrew. He should have been upfront with his team about going undercover. He should have been more willing to listen to her when she said they shouldn't leave Jenny alone. He should have been able to handle the whole Rivkin thing differently. He should have been crazy enough to get off that plane and drag her back on it with him. She should have been here now, either loving him or hating him.

He would honestly take either one.

"To the movies." Because they had a narrative structure so preferable to the one employed by real life. In the movies, people died at the end of their story. In real life, people died right smack dab in the middle. Every time. She was in the middle. She was nowhere near the end. Nowhere _near_ it. They were in the middle, together. And what did that mean for him? What did that mean for his story, being stranded in the middle alone? How was he supposed to make that work?

He had been over it and over it, and his only solution was avoid sleep at all costs. Because on this Saturday, all he knew for sure was that he would never survive waking up to a world without her.


	6. 2009, One More Time With Feeling

**Author's Note: **I apologize for not responding to reviews for last chapter yet- this has been the craziest week of my life. I will hope you accept this bonus mini-chapter (at the request of starryjules) as compensation. Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans!

**Saturday, July 4th, 2009. Baidoa, Somalia.**

She knew what day it was, and it would have made her father proud. Despite everything, her training had not failed her in this regard. She could still track the passage of time.

It was all she was able to do.

Otherwise, she was broken. Completely destroyed. She had lasted longer than most would've through the beatings and the drugs and the sensory deprivation and the burns. But it was like she had told McGee- everyone eventually breaks. She had never made exceptions for herself.

She'd had nothing of use for Saleem. He knew that now. She'd crumbled in his hands, and all she'd been able to give him were lies. He'd made a miscalculation- he'd thought of her as someone who'd earned more trust than she had. He thought of her as someone worthy of knowing secret.

He knew nothing of her.

And now that she was revealed as an utterly disposable person, there was nothing left for her but death. Independence Day. She would be free of this world and it of her. She was not afraid. She did not believe in a world after this, one in which her sister and her mother and her brother and all she had lost would be restored to her. She believed in an end. She welcomed it.

She did not want to consider the alternative. The one in which the disposable person was kept alive only because she was the single woman in a camp of thirty men. The one in which she was left in this airless room to relive her every mistake.

She wanted nothing more than the freedom of an end.

It was more than she deserved. She, who had failed so completely. She, who had trusted so mistakenly. She, who had made every wrong choice. It was more than she deserved, but still she hoped.

Which is what had always been her downfall. Hoping when she knew better. Hoping that Ari could be helped, hoping that her father would change, hoping that Tony would love her, hoping that Michael could be saved, hoping that Gibbs would find a way to not leave her behind...hoping, when she'd never been given any reason to hope.

She wondered if her Aaliyah would be enough for her father. She had failed in her mission. She wondered if the fact that she died trying would be enough. She battled the hope that it might be.

She wondered about Gibbs, about Abby, about McGee, about Ducky. She wondered about Tony. People who had been hers. That time no longer felt real, more like something from a dream. She couldn't quite bring their faces in to focus anymore. The memories of their voices were fading fast. Were they forgetting her so quickly? It was not more than she deserved. She had never been able to apologize for taking the wrong side. She had never gotten to explain that she hadn't felt worthy of siding with those who had so unflinchingly sided with her.

This was not one of Tony's movies. If it were, she would get one last chance to make it right. At least with him. But this was the same life she had always lived, and it was one in which that which was ruined never got rebuilt.

This was the end of her. She was sorry she had not been better. She had hoped...

But there would be no more of that. Because, on this Saturday, death could not come quickly enough.


	7. 2010

**Saturday, July 31, 2010. Miami, Florida.**

"I'll be at Rumba in an hour or so. I was thinking it's probably time we tried those mojitos."

He was handsome, though she had to confess to being distracted by those ears. He was funny, if not particularly original. He was CIA, so he already knew all there was to know.

He was still interested.

"It would be a shame to leave Miami without a taste." She had the pleasure of watching him fumble a bit at her words. She had always known just how to start with men.

The finishing was the problem.

"Well, then," he recovered himself quickly, "I hope to see you there." Just before they parted, he gave her a gift.

A single orchid bloom.

How he found a way to acquire such an impractical present during their nine hours of surveillance, she could not begin to guess, but she was impressed, at least momentarily. She loved orchids. Was that in the dossier the Agency had no doubt prepared? Surely not. She was a contact, not a target. Such detail would have been unnecessary. Still, suspicion was her constant companion.

Beware nice men bearing gifts.

The orchid was dropped on the pavement beside her own car. Drinks, she could manage. She was not yet ready for flowers. She would be smart this time. She would be slow.

"Miss David!"

She startled at the sound of her own name upon entering the hotel lobby. Being flagged down by the front desk would mean news of some sort. Her heart was in her throat as she approached, fearing it was time for her to face another loss.

"This arrived for you while you were out."

Not news, then. A package. She was on high alert as she took it back to her room. She could neither smell nor hear anything that would cause immediate concern.

But still.

She put on gloves before carefully opening the box, which had no return address. When the contents were finally revealed, she sat staring dumbly at them for a moment.

Then she read the card: "So, I guess you're officially one of us now. Consider this your American citizen starter pack."

A smile split her face, and she held the I *heart* NYC t-shirt and the Statue of Liberty snowglobe close to herself. Tony. Which meant he was finally back.

There would have been a time when she would not have made the call- when she would have agonized over what to say and in the end, would have chosen to say nothing.

There would have been a time, but that was when she was a different person.

He answered on the first ring, and her smile grew even wider. "I assume you got my gifts."

"I did." In homage to the past, she tried to ensure that he could not hear the full extent of her joy in her voice. "They are..."

"I think the word you are looking for is "classic." Now you can be like every other citizen of this great land and own your very own Statue of Liberty encased in glass. Also, like every other American, you will happily ignore the somewhat ironic meta statement made by such a trinket."

"So you had a layover at JFK?"

"And that's why you're the super-spy. Yep. Couldn't get a direct flight to D.C. A three-hour layover with Gibbs. Shopping for you was pure self-preservation."

"I can imagine."

"Hey, Ziva?" There was a pause, but she did not rush to fill the silence. Eventually he found the words. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

She had been too. She would never tell him, but it had lessened the day for her. Just a little. And it was not like she did not understand. "You did not miss much, Tony."

"Kinda feels like a lot."

She tightened her grip on the cheap t-shirt and tried to catch her breath. It was time now to fill the silence, to lighten the moment...before sincerity sent them both running for cover. "Yes, well, there was no opportunity to "Speak now or forever hold your piece.'"

He chuckled, and she congratulated herself on a successful swerve. "That's a relief. I'd hate to think I'd missed that kind of chance."

And that's when the phone call should have ended. After the thank yous and the apologies and the requisite banter, it should have been time to let each other go. He had just returned from a long mission, and she had a sort-of date after all.

But it would have been unprofessional of her not to request the details of an operation so closely linked to her own. And it would have been negligent of him not to ask for a full progress report from Miami.

And it would have been silly of them not to watch _Breakfast __At __Tiffany__'__s_ together over the phone when Tony found it on TCM. She had never seen it, and how could they possibly let that stand?

He could sleep later. She would have a mojito another day.

On this Saturday, they had their priorities.


	8. 2011

**Author's Note: **Thanks again to JMHaughey for the read-through. Only one more Saturday, until this little experiment in endings is complete.

**Saturday, July 9, 2011. Bethesda, MA.**

If ever a day deserved a faceplant into a bed, it was this one. He indulged the impulse, then immediately regretted it. The crappy safehouse mattress didn't exactly have the same "give" as his nice king-sized at home.

God, he missed home.

"This is _not_ like before," he informed the watercolor owls hanging above the bed, judging him.

It felt like before.

He'd found E.J. today, stopped her from getting on a plane. Not because he thought she was doing anything wrong, but because he needed her. Not like _that. _He needed her to get to Cade. The power of a past romance allowed him to use her.

And it felt just like before.

"This time'll be different," he told the superior-looking owls. Owls, who, in his mind, weren't buying it.

They expressed their doubts in voices that sounded disturbingly like Ziva's. Great, his personal Jiminy Crickets were Israelis with a limited grasp of idioms.

"It _will_ be different." Which was a promise to the people who mattered. He'd convince E.J. to go to Gibbs. He'd convince Gibbs to help. He'd leave the secrets and the safehouses and the deep covers to someone else. He was an investigator, not CIA.

Which of course took him right back to those damn Israeli owls in the painting. Who were they to judge him? They were the ones who loved spies so freakin' much.

He glared at them, but they had nothing to say to that.

Ziva had experience with secrets and safehouses and deep covers. Ziva spoke nine languages and was from the Middle East. Ziva had been raised a spy, a lethal one at that, and she was in love with a man from the CIA.

It was a punch to the gut, the realization that she might not be there when he returned to the team.

Because it would make sense, for her to go CIA. They'd want her. The daughter of the Director of Mossad? She'd be valuable. And she was qualified. And unlike Gibbs, the CIA encouraged intra-agency romance.

Fuck.

Suddenly, the owls had to go. He tore the cheap painting off the wall and trashed it. He was thinking about his partner, when he really should be thinking about E.J., so he could get to Cade and get the _hell_ out of here.

See, this is what happened when he had too much time alone. He was a social animal. He needed people, dammit. People he could talk to. People who could save him from a fate worse than death- being alone with his thoughts.

"I really, really hate the summer." The owls were gone, so he could no longer pretend he wasn't talking to himself.

It was the truth. Summer just wasn't his season. He hadn't had a nice summer since...2006. Damn. That had been five years ago. And it was obviously an anomaly. He allowed himself a brief reflection on how he'd spent that summer and a flash of disappointment at how he'd failed to take advantage of all it had to offer.

If he'd known that the summers to come were to bring nothing but secret assignments and presumed deaths and separations, well... He would have done things differently.

"If I ever get the chance again." Saying it out loud leant an air of credibility to the promise.

And a promise, even one to himself, required an act of good faith. He opened up his laptop and offered a silent thanks to McGeek for teaching him how to send an encrypted email.

To: zdavid

From: tdinozzo

Subject: don't worry

I'm fine. I'm bringing Gibbs in. Looking forward to getting back to normal.

-T

He sent it. Because he knew that she was worrying. And because they were making progress. And because he hoped, hoped, hoped that she would still be there when he came home.

Because on this Saturday, he was ready for his second chance.


	9. 2012

**Author's Note:** Thanks to JMHaughey for one last read through. And thanks to you for seeing this story through to the end.

**Saturday, July 21, 2012. Washington, D.C.**

"Tony, what're ya doin'?"

"Buckling your seat belt. Move your arm."

"But I-"

"It's time to go home, McDrunkard. Not another word." Tony slammed the door shut and made his way to the other side of the car. One wasted geek down. One more to go.

"But I don' wanna leave. The party was not yet gettin' started."

"It's 1:00 AM, Jimmy. On your wedding day. Get in the car." For half a second, Palmer looked like he might put up a fight, but then he yawned and collapsed into his seat.

Tony handed each of his passengers garbage bags he'd snagged from the bartender. "If you have to puke, you better make damn sure it's in the bags. If you vomit in my car, I'm taking you both to Anacostia and abandoning you."

But he was talking to himself. The other two men were already sleeping peacefully in his back seat. When had he become the most responsible guy at the party? He was supposed to be the one getting sloppy drunk and accidentally hitting on transvestites, not the one forcing them to switch to water and driving them home.

To make himself feel better, he snapped a photo of the nerdlings snuggling in the backseat and sent it to Ziva. Not so mature anymore, was he?

By the time Tony returned to the car after zombie-marching McGee into his apartment, he had two return texts from his partner:

"Never text me at 1 AM again unless you are bleeding."

"Did you pose Palmer so that he was cradling McGee's chin, or did they do that on their own?"

He smiled to himself, because Ziva was funny...and because she'd care if he were bleeding.

"You know the world's gonna end today."

Tony jumped, hitting his head in the process- he'd forgotten he still wasn't alone in the car. "Fuck, Palmer."

"It can't be good. Gettin' married on the end of the world."

As a rule, Tony avoided engaging drunks in conversation, but as long as the kid was awake, he decided he should keep him talking. Hopefully if his mouth was otherwise occupied, he wouldn't start puking. "What are you talking about?"

"The world! And how it's ending."

"You're just getting married. It's not the end of the world."

"Yes! It is! That guy...the one who murdered the other guy...he said so. July 21st. Today. My wedding day."

"Wait, are you talking about Norman Rundquist? The doomsday crackpot from the arson case? Jimmy, the guy was a murderer, and he'd named at least eight dates for the end of the world."

"Yep. And one of them is my marriage day. I don' wanna get married if it's gonna make the world go stop."

"So now your marriage is actually causing the end of the world?"

"Yep."

Jimmy looked so forlorn that Tony was torn between laughing at him, or hugging him. In the end, he did neither. He simply told him the truth. "Well, man, at least you won't be all alone at the end. That doesn't sound so bad to me."

oOo

"Who the hell plans an outdoor wedding in July?"

"Apparently, Breena loves this garden." Ziva's tone was full of rebuke for her whiny partner, but her eyes held nothing but gratitude for the tall glass of ice water he offered.

Why _would _someone plan an outdoor wedding in July? She suspected Palmer of exercising poor judgement in selecting a marriage partner, but decided to keep her thoughts to herself. She had no space to talk.

"Yeah, I'm sure the garden would have been lovely in the spring. You know, when gardens actually bloom."

"She has allergies."

"Well she sounds like a real treat."

Ziva allowed herself a brief smirk when she cut her eyes toward Tony, nothing more. She had been trying so hard to reign in her cynicism.

"Maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to shut down Palmer's 'end of days' talk last night," he mumbled.

This time the face she turned to him was full of confusion.

"Apparently today was one of Norman Rundquist's picks for the apocalypse."

"The insane arsonist from last month?"

"That's the one."

"Hmm. Perhaps it would serve them right for inviting us all without a plus one." Not that she would have been able to find a date. Still, it was rude of them to assume that would be the case.

"That's the Ziva I know and love."

She tried not to take his words to heart as she clinked his offered glass.

oOo

The food was bad, and the short, purple dress Ziva was wearing was...distracting. He felt a familiar sting on the back of his neck, alerting him to the fact that Gibbs had caught him staring at his partner's exposed thigh.

He was pretty sure Ziva had caught him too. Only, she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she shifted, deliberately revealing even more of her absolutely-fucking-perfect legs. Either that, or heat stroke was setting in and causing delusions.

He was happy either way.

The end of the toasts signaled the end of the meal and the beginning of dancing. After an interminable number of contrived spotlight dances, the bandleader welcomed the guests to the dance floor.

They were playing an old Sinatra number, and Tony figured the heat must really be getting to him, because the urge to ask his partner to dance was irresistible.

Despite Gibbs' glare o' doom, she said yes, which made Tony think that maybe Norman was right about July 21st. When Ziva stepped into his arms, he pulled her closer than he had dared in years. It might be his last day on earth. It might be his last chance.

She didn't pull away. She melted into him. Fucking _melted._ Tony could feel the eyes of every member of their team on them, but he didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care. How could he? When she was in his arms? When he was able to run his hands over the bare skin of her back? When she sighed and _laid __her __head __on __his __shoulder_?

Gibbs could have fired him on the spot, and all Tony would have been able to do was smile and nod and keep holding on to her.

"I could have had this."

Her words were jarring in the intimacy of the moment. He didn't know how to respond. She pulled back so that she could look at him, and _no,__no,__no_. He wanted his moment back. Her eyes were all serious and a little sad, and the Sinatra song only had a few more bars.

"The wedding, I mean. I could have had one too."

Tony was too busy mourning all of his missed chances to catch her meaning. She gave another sigh, frustrated this time, when she had to spell it out.

"Ray proposed."

He stopped a few beats short of the song. They should still be dancing, but he could barely stand. He calmed his racing heart by focusing on her left hand. The one devoid of anything that could pass for an engagement ring. She hadn't said yes.

But she could have.

"Why?"

"It is so difficult for you to believe that someone might want to marry me?"

Sinatra gave way to Ray Charles, and Tony instinctively took her in his arms again. "Not at all. I meant, 'Why did you say no?'"

"That life, with the lying and the leaving and the lack of tolerance for questions...it is comfortable to me."

There was a question in her eyes, so he nodded in response.

"I _know _that life. But I do not want it."

When she looked at him this time, he was saw nothing but certainty. "Ray is a nice man. But he is not what I want."

Then her head was back on his shoulder. Apparently she had said all she needed to say.

"You'll get your wedding one day, Z. I have no doubt." He hoped it sounded like a promise.

oOo

Decisions made on the dance floor could rarely be trusted. She had likely gone too far, especially with her whole world watching. Still, he hadn't run away from her. The world hadn't ended.

Of course, it was entirely possible he had not received her message. Language was not the only barrier to their communication. She could not bring herself to be clear. She had not yet come so far as to be able to forgo their customary ambiguity.

She had been clear enough, though, to earn a warning look from her boss as he said goodbye. And it was entirely possible that her behavior on the dance floor had influenced Tony's lack of response to the Maid of Honor's flirtatious banter in the cake line.

Perhaps she was finally getting somewhere.

"I'm pretty sure I just saw your ride drive off with an usher."

"You are saying Abby ditched me?"

"Yep. For a friend of Palmer's. That's gotta hurt."

"There is a certain sting to it."

"Ducky and Gibbs are long gone. McGee actually got to bring a date, which is _highly_ insulting, by the way. So, as far as rides go, it's me or a cab."

"Are you offering, Tony?"

"Obviously, Ziva."

So she followed him to the mustang, pleased that something between them was finally obvious.

oOo

"You are too old for this car."

He knew she said it because she was expected to say it. He also knew her heart wasn't in it. She was hoping he wouldn't bite this time. It was enough to make him hold onto hopes of his own.

"I do not live in Adams Morgan," she informed him as he crossed the bridge.

"No, but my favorite empanada place does. The rubbery wedding chicken didn't cut it." And he needed time. He needed to get his moment back.

oOo

"You're going to break your neck," he warned her when he returned with a bag of empanadas, only to find her pretending the stone edging was a balance beam.

She followed his eyes to her five-inch heels. "But I always dreamed of being an Olympic gymnast. Since the world will end tonight, this could be my last chance."

He wrapped his arm around her waist and lowered her to the sidewalk. "Some dreams are never meant to come true, Nadia Comaneci."

"I suppose you are right." She tried not to inject more meaning than necessary into her statement. She accepted an empanada and joined him on a bench. "It is a shame, though, that you only have a few hours left to master the art of kung fu."

"You read my bucket list."

"Of course."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but his mouth was curved in a grin. "Rest assured, Z, if I really thought the world was going to end tonight, kung fu wouldn't be the item I'd rush to cross off."

"Then perhaps you should get to work on that letter about Benji: The Hunted."

"That was a damn good movie. Some reviews shouldn't be allowed to stand unchallenged."

They sat for a while in easy silence, basking in the relief of successful navigation of a tricky topic. But then he surprised her.

"That's not the one I'd choose either."

She could have made a quip about the unlikelihood of catching a shark in the Potomac, but his statement lacked bravado. In fact, there was a shakiness to his words that made her remember that seven years was a really long time to pretend.

So she decided to be brave.

"You would tell her."

"I would."

The "her" could be any number of people. Any number of people, who could be told any number of things. But Ziva did not think she had this one wrong. Tony was looking at the stars, not at her. She could see his pulse pounding in his neck. She could tell he needed help being brave.

So she took his hand. "Then you should do it."

And she wasn't disappointed. He looked first at their entwined hands, then met her eyes. "I'm glad you didn't say 'yes' to Ray. And it would be okay with me if this was the last night of the world, as long as I got to spend it with you."

Technically, there was still room for doubt. They were still who they had always been.

But on this Saturday, they were finally, finally on the same page.

**FIN**


End file.
